not knowing my father, even though for so long I have assumed that he’s the sort of person I would be better off without, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I have real and sudden moments of wanting to meet him, little seizures of the heart.
Besides the few other details I gathered from my mother, this is the basic portrait I invented over the years. If anyone asked, that’s everything I might say. Or else I would say that I don’t know, because, of course, I don’t. I can only guess.
The next morning , Danilo is waiting for me. He’s drinking a cup of coffee and eating scrambled eggs.
“You want coffee?” he asks when he sees me.
“Please.” I sit across from him at the table, as we were last night. It feels strange to see him in the daylight again, as if having seen him last night, in dimmer light, I learned something secret about him that makes him look different—and makes me feel more connected to him—now.
He points to the urn that again has been assembled on the bar top.
“Oh, I thought you were offering to get me a cup,” I joke.
“No, but you can get me a refill while you’re up,” he says.
I don’t know the word for “refill” in Spanish, but I gauge his meaning when he holds out his empty mug.
When I return to the table with two cups of coffee, the steam swirling off the tops, Danilo slides a tin can toward me. It’s wrapped in a paper label that says “Nestlé Ideal.” I pour some of it—a viscous, yellowy milk—onto my fingertip to taste it.
“What do you usually use?” Danilo asks.
“In my coffee?”
“Yes, in your coffee. Of course, in your coffee.” Playfully, he rolls his eyes.
“I usually use milk.”
“Cow’s milk?”
“Yes, cow’s milk, Danilo. Of course, cow’s milk.”
He grins. “This is better,” he says, pointing to the can. “It’s richer. A better flavor.”
“Everything here is better, according to you.”
“Of course. This is my country. If I were visiting you in your country, I would expect you to tell me that everything there is better. You have to be like that. You have to be proud, you know?”
I wipe my finger on a napkin before pouring the milk into my coffee.
“So what are we doing today?” Danilo asks. He’s wearing what I’ve determined by now is his unofficial uniform: an old T-shirt, baggy cargo pants, and a pair of Adidas shell-toes, the tongues lapping over the hem of his pants. Today’s T-shirt is white with a faded and cracked Esso gas decal on the front, the cotton on the shoulders so threadbare that the shade of his skin bleeds through.
“Where are your flowers?” I ask.
“Eh, I’m off duty today.”
“Why?”
“Because we have things to do, no? Oye, did you already try the library?”
I don’t want to admit that I haven’t. I did think about it at some point, but I got distracted by the failure of yesterday.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
“No. I haven’t tried the library.”
“Wow. You’re not exactly a natural-born detective, are you?” He shovels some of the eggs into his mouth. “You want to eat something before we go?”
“We’re going right now?”
“Of course right now. If you really want to find your father, then let’s find him. There isn’t time for waiting around, you know. He’s not going to just walk into this hotel and introduce himself. You have to look for him.”
“I know.”
“Yesterday was one thing, but now we have to keep the momentum going.”
“The what?”
“Momentum,” he says again, and though I still don’t know the word, I figure out the general idea when he rolls his hands one over the other. “You know, I don’t believe that you have any Panamanian blood in your veins. Where’s your fire, Miraflores? Panamanians have fire. I mean, how sure are you that this man is really your father? I’m not convinced.” He’s teasing now, although the intimation that perhaps I don’t act as a Panamanian would ignites a certain, grazing
Besides the few other details I gathered from my mother, this is the basic portrait I invented over the years. If anyone asked, that’s everything I might say. Or else I would say that I don’t know, because, of course, I don’t. I can only guess.
The next morning , Danilo is waiting for me. He’s drinking a cup of coffee and eating scrambled eggs.
“You want coffee?” he asks when he sees me.
“Please.” I sit across from him at the table, as we were last night. It feels strange to see him in the daylight again, as if having seen him last night, in dimmer light, I learned something secret about him that makes him look different—and makes me feel more connected to him—now.
He points to the urn that again has been assembled on the bar top.
“Oh, I thought you were offering to get me a cup,” I joke.
“No, but you can get me a refill while you’re up,” he says.
I don’t know the word for “refill” in Spanish, but I gauge his meaning when he holds out his empty mug.
When I return to the table with two cups of coffee, the steam swirling off the tops, Danilo slides a tin can toward me. It’s wrapped in a paper label that says “Nestlé Ideal.” I pour some of it—a viscous, yellowy milk—onto my fingertip to taste it.
“What do you usually use?” Danilo asks.
“In my coffee?”
“Yes, in your coffee. Of course, in your coffee.” Playfully, he rolls his eyes.
“I usually use milk.”
“Cow’s milk?”
“Yes, cow’s milk, Danilo. Of course, cow’s milk.”
He grins. “This is better,” he says, pointing to the can. “It’s richer. A better flavor.”
“Everything here is better, according to you.”
“Of course. This is my country. If I were visiting you in your country, I would expect you to tell me that everything there is better. You have to be like that. You have to be proud, you know?”
I wipe my finger on a napkin before pouring the milk into my coffee.
“So what are we doing today?” Danilo asks. He’s wearing what I’ve determined by now is his unofficial uniform: an old T-shirt, baggy cargo pants, and a pair of Adidas shell-toes, the tongues lapping over the hem of his pants. Today’s T-shirt is white with a faded and cracked Esso gas decal on the front, the cotton on the shoulders so threadbare that the shade of his skin bleeds through.
“Where are your flowers?” I ask.
“Eh, I’m off duty today.”
“Why?”
“Because we have things to do, no? Oye, did you already try the library?”
I don’t want to admit that I haven’t. I did think about it at some point, but I got distracted by the failure of yesterday.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
“No. I haven’t tried the library.”
“Wow. You’re not exactly a natural-born detective, are you?” He shovels some of the eggs into his mouth. “You want to eat something before we go?”
“We’re going right now?”
“Of course right now. If you really want to find your father, then let’s find him. There isn’t time for waiting around, you know. He’s not going to just walk into this hotel and introduce himself. You have to look for him.”
“I know.”
“Yesterday was one thing, but now we have to keep the momentum going.”
“The what?”
“Momentum,” he says again, and though I still don’t know the word, I figure out the general idea when he rolls his hands one over the other. “You know, I don’t believe that you have any Panamanian blood in your veins. Where’s your fire, Miraflores? Panamanians have fire. I mean, how sure are you that this man is really your father? I’m not convinced.” He’s teasing now, although the intimation that perhaps I don’t act as a Panamanian would ignites a certain, grazing
Similar Books
